Chasing From The Shadows
by Kurtbert
Summary: Kurt's journey through season 1 as seen through the eyes of Sam Season 2 boyfriend whose looking in from the shadows. PRE-SLASH. I don't own Glee.
1. Different

A/N: This is possibly my first multi-chaptered fic. The future depends on you, the readers. If this first chapter goes over well, I'll continue it. This first chapter is told by the season 2 boyfriend, Sam, who is obviously talking about Kurt (I had to explain that for this chapter is told mostly in pronouns for effect). See you at the bottom!

I stroll down the hallway, secretly watching him strut in the opposite direction, chin held high. Any newcomer would think he's the principal's son or something by the way he walks down the halls like he owns them. Of course, this person couldn't have met the principal or have watched my "teammates" throw him mercilessly into the dumpster. Even though he's forced to endure those tortures, he still walks the same; confidence radiating from his impeccable posture as he slightly swings his hips as he walks. I lean against a locker, head following his retreating figure as I dig my hands into the pockets of my American Eagle hoodie. I don't flaunt my letterman jacket proudly and shove it in people's faces like the rest of the team; I'm different from them.

Two of my letterman jacket clad teammates shove him into a wall of drab lockers, reminding me of a red cardinal with a broken wing against a grayscale winter landscape. So what if I'm poetic, it's not like I talk that way and make those thoughts known to the world. His books fall, scattering across the floor as an annoyed, frustrated look dominates his angelic features. People snicker and kick the resident "flamer's" belongings, somehow finding it amusing. I take the perfect opportunity to be a knight in shining armor to my damsel in distress and run to pick up the farthest-kicked books. As I pass, I give the football players' signature death-glare to the book-kickers because there is only one kicker, _my_ kicker; and I want to prove to him that I am different.

Most of the students just walk around me, blind to my actions. The ones who do notice, however, confront me with looks of confusion since they've never seen someone like _me_, a _jock_, helping "the queer" pick up his books, or anyone else try to help for that matter. Why should a simple act of courtesy confuse anyone? Whatever happened to good old-fashioned manners? I just don't understand society sometimes. I guess I'm just different.

I take the last of the books scattered around me, dusting them off and checking for damage. I stand and turn to find his face unimpressed. He lets out an exasperated sigh as if he expects me to continue the abuse, so his eyes widen to sea-green saucers when I hold the books out to him, smiling a half-smile and making my brown eyes look as innocent as possible. He blinks repeatedly, expecting to wake up, before hesitantly stepping forward to take the books in his own hands.

His hand brushes against mine for a brief moment as we make the exchange and I feel one of those completely cliché, sappy sparks that nearly makes me fall over, heart still. After the pause, though, it picks up to a rate faster than a wild stallion (ugh, there I go with the poetry again). Of course he doesn't feel it, he only has eyes for Finn Hudson, a jock so similar to me yet lacking in comparison in the intelligence department. Sometimes, I just want to shake him awake, to snap him out of his dream of running through the fairytale meadows with a boy who can't reciprocate his feelings because it must _hurt _so effing much. See, I don't want to see him hurt like some of my "friends"; I'm different.

He looks at the books and back up at me, sea-green irises sparkling and lets a timid "Thanks" escape his lips in his beautifully distinct voice. He smiles crookedly, one dimple being exposed on his rosy cheek, and walks away. He doesn't see me admire his thick, lustrous, chestnut hair bouncing, the hair I'd like nothing more than to knot my fingers through. He doesn't see my eyes follow every sashaying motion of his as he picks up to his usual strut. He doesn't see my pathetic, lovesick expression as he walks away from one of the only boys in this town that can ever reciprocate the feelings he doesn't have for me. He can't feel the ache of my shattering heart as he is probably feeling the same way longing for Finn. You see, I'm gay. I'm a gay football player and I am madly in love with Kurt Hummel, and that is something very different from the rest of the jocks.

Should I continue this, or should it be left as a one-shot? Comments/Critiques/Reviews are love! 3


	2. Flashback: Pt 1Confusion

**LONG A/N:** I am so sorry for taking this long to post this chapter, it's been over two weeks. I've been very busy with power outages, camping with no wi-fi (but still with my journal to write this, so I didn't forget about you guys), and terrible writers' block. Thank you all for your positive reviews, story alerts, and favorites! I keep each in every one of them in a special mailbox that I read whenever I'm feeling down (you really didn't need to know that much about my life, but I want to inform you about your impact). This is my first second chapter of a story, so I'm nervous. I don't like it as much as the first because I am terrible at writing in the past tense. I also don't think the actual writing is that good, but I need these flashback chapters (there a 3, so be warned) of his middle school years because it is a very important time of confusion and realization for these kids. Sam in these flashback chapters isn't comfortable at all with his sexuality yet, so he will degrade himself. I obviously don't think that way, but these aren't my thoughts; they're 13 year-old Sam's. This is un-beta-ed; so all mistakes are my 11:45 p.m. typos and such.

**Disclaimer: **I didn't include one the first chapter, so if you thought I owned glee then, I am sorry to crush your dreams, but I don't own glee (sadly). I do own a Kurt plushie that I made, however! Now that my rambling is done, it's finally time for the next chapter!

7th grade was probably one of the worst years of my life. I was uncomfortable, scared, and even a little depressed; most of these a result of me making an important yet scary realization about myself. I was 13 and a lot of the kids at school had started dating; hell, Puck had even lost his virginity. I found myself uninterested in any of it, so I'd figured that it would just take me a little bit longer to see through their eyes. I listened to their perverted conversations and started really trying to jog my mind into thinking of girls like a normal teenage boy should. I started trying to look down their shirts, up their skirts, "accidentally" brushing against them in the hallways and letting my arms feel them up for a quick second, just to see if it could send the hormones some sort of message. All it got me were red handprints on my cheeks from slapping, a couple of detentions, a cleverly titled pamphlet, and a label as a pervert. All that work and what did it get me? Well, it got me nothing; zip, nada, nilch. I was so confused.

7th grade was also the year when _real_ PE started; not the playing tag and flapping the infamous rainbow parachute kind that we had in elementary school. No, this was real sports and uniforms PE, which meant two words, locker room. Most of the boys were fine with it, stripping in front of their lockers and changing without a second thought or hesitation; but I wasn't. The first couple of months I just made sure that I got to the locker room early to change before everyone else arrived so when they did, I could just find some corner for myself to stall and keep to myself before the actual class started. I didn't know what exactly about the situation made my stomach churn. I'd thought I was just being modest; but what I really was was confused.

Changing in private was a choice that _I_ made, but it was forced upon some, well, one. The rest of the guys would always shove this nicely dressed kid, Kurt Hummel, into a stall with his uniform and barricade the door shut as he changed. They would hurl insults through the door and further the harassment more when they freed him due to his banging on the doors. Some, like the cocky, terrible souls they were, would do something like take their shirt off, challenge him by saying something along the lines of "Like what you see, little freak?", and then start shoving him around like a helpless puppy as he just rolled his eyes and spit out a sarcastic, witty comment. Of course, _I_ wasn't aware of this until the _one_ day I was late for PE. I forgot what'd made me late, but it's made me arrive on time (late for being early) with everyone else. I'd just planned on getting my uniform and changing in one of the stalls, but what had ended up happening wasn't planned, and neither were the thoughts it evoked and the confusion that resulted in those thoughts.

I had one hand on the stall door, the other holding my uniform, ready to slip in; but I was abruptly stopped. As my hand wrapped around the handle, ready to pull, the voice of Dave Karofsky, one of the door guards for Kurt, had said, "What, you changing in the stall like the little fag here?" The words echoed, bouncing around the tiled room, as he casually made a gesture over his shoulder to the black door he was pressed flush against. "W-w-what," I'd stammered out, the words that he'd said rattling in my brain like a pinball, making my mid blank and my body freeze. "We have the little fag in here so he can't drool over the sights to see," the slam of a fist pounding the door following the words, "We were wondering why you're about to go change in that stall right there. _You_ a fag, too," he said jokingly since we knew each other well. I still could barely speak, my stomach feeling ready to empty its contents and the sound of the blood pulsing through my ears deafening. I was beginning to shake, so I tried to change the direction of the conversation. "You mean Kurt," I'd known him, but we were only acquaintances that shared a couple of classes, "That's terrible guys, you really shouldn't do that." I'd tried to sound as authoritative as I could in my state, but ended up sounding as weak as I felt. He'd just shrugged it off, repeating their previous question, not being fooled by my sad attempt at a subject-change. "I-I-I'm just feeling really sick right now," it wasn't a lie, the ground was spinning under me," and I don't think the teacher will be too happy if I leave a mess," I added, a weak attempt at humor. The guys just cringed at the thought, shuddering to try and shake it off. "Just go to the nurse," Puck, the other guard said, raising a dismissive hand. Happily taking his advice, I hobbled out of the locker room sick and more confused than ever.

**A/N: **Again, reviews/critiques/comments make a motivated writer, so please review (anonymous reviews are allowed, so there's no excuse. *pointedly stares at lurkers* XP I kid, I kid).


	3. Flashback: Pt 2Realization

A/N: Thank you for all of your lovely reviews, they really mean so much to me and never fail to bring an incredibly sappy, teary smile to my face! This is the second of three middle school flashbacks since this time is really important to his character. Sam is going through a lot in this chapter, so he will have some darker thoughts about himself, which is sadly not uncommon. I'm trying to keep this as real as possible, so if any parts seem unrealistic or out of character, please don't hesitate to comment!

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I'd stumbled into the nurse's office, zig-zagging and panting heavily. My head was swimming with thoughts, realizations that disoriented me. The frail woman didn't even have to ask me what was wrong, my mental and physical discomfort laid out on my sleeve as it was. Instead, she just led me to one of the leather and spring cots in the back of the room, my fall causing the springs to let out a scream of despair. She'd pulled the thin, blue, thin, paper-like, cotton curtain that was hanging on a track from the ceiling around the cot, giving me much-needed privacy. Once my head was down and resting on the thin paper covering the pillow, I'd closed my eyes and the echoes of the words seeping in every crevice of my brain crescendoed, eating at the very flesh and muscle of my being. "You a_ fag_, too?" The pieces fit together in a way that was painfully perfect, yet completely impossible. I couldn't be _gay_, it was a _crime_, a _sin_. Liking the same gender was _immoral_, no, that couldn't be _me_. My stomach had churned, the truth seeming unbearably obvious. All of those attempts to trigger that unreachable hormone locked up in a cold, dark, dungeon in my brain, all of that confusion, it seemed a perfect match; but it _couldn't_, it _shouldn't_. _I _couldn't be the one that had to be locked in a slimy stall in the locker room, harassed by guards that were barricading the door just to change into my PE uniform. _I_ couldn't be the one to deserve that word. See, I was in denial of the truth. I wouldn't face the realization.

I tried to do anything I could to prove myself wrong, to stop thinking. I tried fantasizing, bringing up the mental pictures burned in my memory from my perverted peeping phase, thinking of what I would have seen had those shirts just dipped a hair lower, the angle of their bend allowing their skirt to raise that extra centimeter, just anything to get a reaction. "Well, maybe I just _am_ just a late bloomer," I had thought, desperately clutching on to that last strand of hope like a life-preserver," Like, nothing would happen if I thought about a _boy_, right?" I'd needed it not to be true, to make myself wake up from this nightmare, so I'd tried. I'd thought of the one boy in the building who wouldn't murder me or rip me to shreds sadistically with their bare hands if they somehow found out that I'd been picturing them; the boy behind the door, Kurt Hummel. I'd imagined my hand caressing, no,_ just resting_ on his face, traveling through lustrous, no, thick chestnut locks, trailing across the soft, milky, pale skin of his back, tracing the spine just a little bit lower…"**NO**," I'd screamed in the safety of my brain, my fantasy giving me no more wiggle room to fit the thinnest thread of denial. My treacherous body had made the realization undeniable against my deepest pleas, the formerly imprisoned hormone freed from its cell, making its presence obvious. I'd flipped over on the cot, ashamed and not wanting anyone to see what was happening to me, even as a shadowy silhouette behind a paper curtain. I'd grunted various profanities into the pillow, reaching near-hysteria and trying to drain some of the buildup before it could _completely_ shatter me. Hot, salty tears disappeared into the scratchy cotton of the cheap pillow as the realization sunk in fully.

I'd thought about how this must've been for Kurt, how this moment had played out for him. He always seemed so comfortable with himself, strutting down the halls with a confidence radiating that could be felt by anyone within a 5 foot radius. He probably didn't even bat an eye, yet there I was, a silent emotional wreck glued to a cot in a curtained off corner of the school nurse's office. He probably just eased into the idea, seeing he'd always been a gender non-conformer (hey, I liked to use big words, big deal). Those thoughts led me to think more and more about him, his unbelievable self-confidence, how he'd always be the angel of the class, never disturbing anything and always having a raised hand, how string he was to deal with what the guys were doing to him and probably did more of in my absence…"Shit," I'd screamed into the pillow, the last though having scared me paler than the silent, suspenseful darkness in a horror movie could ever dream of accomplishing, "What would the guys do if they ever figured out about me?" They would hate me, hell, I hated myself; what I was, it was unnatural, a disgrace to all humanity. My heart rate picked up as I'd pictured various torture methods being executed on my bruised, bloody body and self-esteem being carried out by looming, huge, dark figure. The realization of a possible future made me shudder from an arctic chill.

I was desperate for a distraction; anything to block the murderous, demon jocks that swarmed my mind with various weapons that belonged plasticized, residing in crinkly cellophane wrappers on the shelf of a Halloween store. My thirteen year-old mind had concocted traumatizing images of my demise, knife in my back and unfathomable words carved crudely into my bruised and bleeding flesh by elaborate monsters in jerseys, monsters whose grotesque faces held a terrifying resemblance to my teammates. The word 'team' almost yanked me out of the nightmare. I wasn't on their team anymore, I 'batted for the other team'; a team exponentially outnumbered by the norm, a team consisting of only two outsiders. I realized that in a way, unconsciously, it was Kurt and me against the world. The fact that we barely acknowledged the other's existence yet we were a lone duo was a very ironic realization.

I'd tried to make myself numb, to escape the flood of fears, realizations, questions, and inevitable truths that were making my head split open. To do that, I'd tried my trusty relaxation tool; the thought of my mother gently stroking through my hair with her fingers at my bedside, a technique that she'd used to get me to fall asleep or calm down since I was an infant. I'd closed my eyes, feeling phantom fingers kneading through my thick, brown curls. "Mom," I'd murmured, almost like a sigh. "MOM, DAD," my mind had screamed, my body broken from its trance, the fingers quickly fading. How in the world was I ever going to tell them, to admit that their son was a genetic reject, frowned upon by society and with scoffs that would prove further my inferiority? Sure I'd never actually been treated like that, that that's how I'd imagined I would be seen. How could I disappoint them like that? I could never do that after hearing all of their visions of grandkids that they could call their own and spoil rotten, visions of me getting married and having a life. That alone could never happen, not here. What this problem would do to my future was a realization that I'd never wanted to make.

The shrill, ear-piercing clang of the bell had incredulously broken through the thick, nearly impenetrable, layers of thoughts that constricted my brain in a chokehold. That, followed by the tiny clicking of heels had brought me back to the surface of reality and that the nurse was going to check up on me. The rings scratched across the steel rod as the frail woman tugged open the drapes, a pool of blinding light flooding into my little corner. "Are you feeling better sweetie," she'd said with concern, "or should I call your mom to take you home?" My head shook vigorously before she'd even finished the question, my 'no' clearer than crystal. "I mean, no thank you," I'd added, remembering my manners. The process of using my voice was almost alien. " Both of my parents are really busy at work." I was lying straight through my teeth, knowing perfectly well that my mother was at home. My lie was as unconvincing as it'd felt, the nurse barely nodding and raising a single grey eyebrow. "Okay then, just stay here until school is over, you shouldn't go out in your state." How ironic. Yeah, I really shouldn't come out in this state, well, more like the cow town. She secured me back in the privacy of my cornered off area like a child cocooned in their security blanket. I was left to stay there, alone with my thoughts for the rest of the day, realizing that it would not be a good experience.

The deafening ring of the bell had never felt so heavenly and dreadful. As much as I'd wanted to bolt from the room, I didn't want to face the world with these realizations. I dreaded going home, seeing my family, knowing that the Sam that had left the house just hours before would never return. I dreaded going home, seeing my family knowing fully that I was hiding something I'd had a mental debate in my head, deciding in the end to not go directly home. I'd had enough balance to walk out of the stuffy office and into the fresh, brisk, April rain. Granted, it wasn't the best day to have a leisurely stroll around town, but what else could I have done? I'd settled on going to the elementary school's playground, sloshing through puddles and soaked to the point where I'd needed gills. I'd trudged the two blocks and threw myself down on a swing, rolling my head back to let the cool drops splatter and run down my face, ears, neck, and hair. The sound of miniature armies marching around the field was soothing an pleasant to my formerly sound-deprived ears. I'd sat on that swing for hours, my cleared head dealing with the realizations much better.

It was when the thunder rolled like a log down a hill did I realize that it was almost dark. It was then I decided that I was ready to go home and face everyone with a new light. It was then I realized that I needed to keep an unchanged façade to keep everyone else from realizing my secret.

A/N: This is the longest chapter yet, so please review/comment/critique!


	4. Flashback: Pt 3Coming To Terms

A/N: Hello readers (if you're still here)! I am so sorry that this chapter is coming to you so late! I've had a lot on my plate this summer and many things that have kept me away from my computer (ex. No wifi, 2 shows, camping, writers' block). I've been working really hard on this chapter because it's nothing like my writing style that I've been using in this, mainly because it focuses on more than one scene and it's in the past tense. Also, I've been trying to make this as real as possible; so if something just doesn't feel right, please don't hesitate to put it in a review! Also, even though we know what Sam looks like, I'm going to continue to use my previous descriptions, so even though Chord has blonde, surfer hair and blue eyes, the Sam in this story will continue to have brown, curly hair and brown eyes. If you don't like this, then pay no attention to any description of him given and substitute Chord's actual features (I've done this many times when I've read). Again, thank you for the lovely reviews; they really helped me through this terrible bout of writers' block (even if it doesn't seem that way)! So without further ado, chapter 4!

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My closet was small. Not in such a way to make one claustrophobic, but a cozy, private, safe little nook. The darkness was warm, like a security blanket. It was a secure little box that kept the dangers of the world from touching the real me, that protected my real identity. I'd just nuzzled myself in there and made myself comfortable since there was no way in hell that I'd ever leave my sanctuary and face the cold, brutal world, naked and about as strong as a newborn kitten. No, I'd just decided to stay there for the rest of my life, never letting anyone in, never coming out. I was slowly coming to terms with who I was and what I would do for my future.

I'd come home, soaking wet on the creaky stoop as lightning crashed behind me, illuminating the darkening sky like a flash of pure sun. The soft pat of bare feet on carpet preceded the faint click of tumblers unlocking the old, mahogany door. Chocolate brown eyes met my dripping form and widened at the sight in concern. Mom. I'd expected that seeing her again after my revelations would be hard, but I hadn't expected _just_ the _level_ of guilt I felt for not being able to tell her anything about _why_ I'd stalled at the playground, dreading this moment. She hadn't noticed that the water droplets on my cheeks were products of my eyes as opposed to the stormy black clouds, how my runny nose wasn't a result of the frigid drops that were making my quivering lips blue. She didn't know, didn't expect, and there was a strange, warming, guilty comfort I felt in knowing that.

Her pink lips let out a murmured "Oh honey" as she raced down the hall to pull my favorite baby pink (don't look at me like that, it's been my favorite since I was two), fluffy towel from the linen closet, bringing it to the door and cocooning my shivering form in the warm, soft, worn terry-cloth. I'd stepped into the doorway, sliding out of my shoes and peeling off the layer of skin that were formerly my socks, and pulled the thick fabric tighter around me. My mom had retreated to the basement, emerging from the door seconds later with a pair of my pajamas, fresh from the dryer, burning like a soft flame. She'd enveloped me in her arms, the warmth of her embrace seeping through the towel and my soggy clothes straight to my heart. She held me close, burying her face in my wet, stringy hair, murmuring questions such as, "What were you doing out there, all alone in a storm without warning me," to which I had no truthful answer, just nuzzling my face further into the sweet smell of the perfume on her neck for warmth in response. I'd tried to keep my composure, but it kept slipping away from my grasp. She just continued to hold me there, rubbing my back to make heat, every stroke causing a shot of guilt through my veins, guilt of hiding from her, guilt of wanting to hide. Did that mean that I wasn't coming to terms with who I was? Was it normal to want to keep everything bottled up?

Life in the closet was actually a lot easier than I had expected. I just acted like there was nothing different about me since that day. I acted as I normally would and no one questioned a thing. Of course, there were times when I'd thought, "Is this a bit risky, would this make anyone raise an eyebrow?" I became more self-conscious and aware of my actions, trying to make myself seem unchanged so no one would think I had changed at all. I was slowly but surely coming to terms with who I was.

Of course, there were rough patches, times where I couldn't think of anything other than my sexuality, like when the other guys bullied Kurt. I would try as hard as I could to get them to stop without getting too defensive and destroying the carefully built door of my closet. I'd always feel guilty when they preceded against my wishes, knowing easily that that could be me in the line of fire, all laser sights combining to make a single red dot in the center of my forehead. There were also times when I was reminded of it, like when I was in 7th grade health class.

We'd been studying the human body and all of its systems. At one point, we'd been studying the reproductive system (fun right? ugh), which was basically the teacher going on and on about how humans are made to reproduce, procreation is the meaning of life, etc. Before then, I'd never skipped a class, but I was just fed up and ready to rip my hair out with every word that came out of that teacher's mouth. I understood the point he was making (even if he wasn't meaning to): if a human doesn't plan on reproducing, they're life must be for nothing. Was he _blind_? It was like they were brainwashing us, making sure that Lima would remain the closed-minded town that was obviously "right". Kurt was in those classes, too, knuckles white as he gripped the edge of his desk, mouth nothing but a thin line.

I never saw him skip class, not even to escape that teacher's long, monotonous lectures. The kid was strong, no doubt about it, physically and mentally. He could sit through the hour of class, dutifully taking his notes, listening, and not disturbing the absurd lecture like a good little student, putting up with things I could've never handled without exploding. He stood up for himself with a superior air that was so admirable. He'd handle abuse (that I tried my hardest to stop) with nothing but a snide, witty remark and strut away. He was perfect in a way, almost to good to be true. Yes, I'd developed a little, teensy, tiny little crush on him, okay, maybe more than that, but who couldn't? I was coming to terms with who I was and crushing was a part of it.

He was cute, pretty. He had an adorable little button nose sprinkled with faint freckles on his silky, perfect skin. His eyelashes were perfectly curled and his eyebrows masterfully arched in a way that made them right on the border of masculine and feminine, truly androgynous. His full lips were a splendid shade of bubblegum pink and constantly shiny, but not in a lip-gloss-y (ick) sort of way, which is just unnatural and far too reflective. Seriously, I could use girls' lips as a mirror to check how I look due to all of the super gloss they use. His cheeks would always turn a deep, cherry rouge from their carnation default after a particularly demanding gym class, winter walk, or just when he'd do something adorable that he'd find embarrassing. His eyes were the most beautiful color that shifted between blue, icy grey, and green. I remember looking up the name, glasz, after a day when I was especially entranced. He'd sometimes wear a (precious) deer in headlights expression where I could just lose my footing gazing into his endless irises.

In my fantasies, I'd make space for him in my closet and we would have the cliché romance in the shadows; but he'd never allow it. No, he is out (even if he isn't _technically_), proud, and fabulous and I'm closeted, meek, and pathetic. I hope for him to have a boyfriend that could give him the kind of relationship he deserves, nothing I could ever give him. He deserves someone to showcase on his arm, someone who would make him happy, someone who isn't me. I'm coming to terms with who I am, but what use is it when I can't even say the words to myself out loud? I have to face that my closet, no matter how safe, how comfortable, is a lonely, isolated place to be.

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A/N: Reviews/comments/rants about how I'm so late/critiques would be lovely (well, maybe not the last two, but those are welcome as well)!


	5. Chase

A/N: Hello readers (if any of you are still here)! I'm going to duck from any projectiles aimed at me for not updating in about a month. I'm so sorry that it's taken so long to get this chapter up. I was diagnosed with a horrid case of writers' block that sucked any and all inspiration from my system. If I had tried to update, it would've been, simply put, crap. I hope this chapter isn't crap. It's unedited because I've been feeling really guilty for not updating and wanted to get it up as fast as I could.

Now, when I posted the first chapter, MorganD gave me a review that really helped me shape Sam's story yet remain canon, so I hope this will settle any questions that that review might've brought up.

Also, this is probably going to be my last chapter. I've made it so that it would be a good end yet be able to grow if I feel it necessary. I've never done a multi-chapter fic and, frankly, I find it extremely difficult because it puts pressure on my soon-to-be-busier life because I always have a guilty nagging in the back of my head going," Why are you surfing the internet? You should be writing your next chapter for all of those people who subscribed to your story and wre kind enough to leave reviews!"

The present-tense of this chapter takes place during September of their Sophomore year before there is glee club and the past takes place during Freshman year. It will be divided to help.

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Ugh. I hate mornings, there is absolutely nothing about them that appeals to me, well, strike that, there is _one_ thing, but it doesn't happen until a bit later, so I don't count it. I pound my alarm clock's snooze button, trying to make it's shrieking at this ungodly hour stop. There's always that feeling when it's mid-September and you're still trying to recover from the summer's magical powers of royally screwing your sleep schedule.

A far too miniscule ten minutes later, the banshee is back, wailing in my ear like there's no tomorrow. The poor plastic squeaks under the abuse I give it, pounding my fist wildly in the direction of my nightstand with my eyes still closed. I groan at the school for starting so early, at the alarm clock for disturbing my peaceful slumber, at the world for just the sake of it. I bring my self to a semi-sitting position, slouching over with my head in my hands like my spine is some sort of flimsy noodle, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. I try to stand like normal, but mornings have a magical power to make me about ninety years older.

I proceed to get ready, waking up more as I start moving around. As I pick and choose from my large variety of white, grey-toed socks, I take a quick glance toward the little photo of a certain someone that I may or may not have cut out from the yearbook and a smile graces my lips. I rush through breakfast with a few complaints from my mother about the magnetic force between my hand and the snooze button, to which I nod and let it go through one ear and out the other.

The sun peaks over the school, the rays blinding me as I trudge sluggishly accross the parking lot towards the entrance, stopping by some trees with a good view of the dumpster, yet out of sight. I'm a bit early, but it's all worth it.

You see, most of my freshman year was spent trying to stop the team from throwing Kurt into the dumpster in a way that wouldn't compromise my cover. Very shortly into my protests, I realized that, sadly, no one on the team would want to take orders from a silly freshman, it was stupid and would harm their pride. Every day my stomach would twist and churn with guilt as his immaculatly dressed figueroa made contact with vile bags of whatever mystery meat was served the day before, so I tried to at least think of something, if not to stop it, then to try and make it better. Cue stroke of utter genius granted upon me by a harp-playing angel (dramatic much?).

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That fateful night I had driven into school after hours with all of my supplies: an assortment of paint, brushes, a lantern, clothespins, and a bucketload of terror. There were three or four cars in the parking lot and a few rooms of the school lit for the janitors, but otherwise, it was deserted. I slowly and carefully tiptoed over to my destination more alert than an Alcatraz escapee, my head turning and checking the coast faster than the Energizer Bunny on Red Bull with ADD.

The lid of the dumpster was heavy, but it was able to open with minimal screeching. When the seal broke, the enclosed stench fled into the fresh air, polluting everything within a foot radius of the bin. I took the clothespin from my grocery store bag that I prepared especially for the purpose and placed it so that it clenched my nose shut. Then, I took the lantern and turned it on so that the bright light illuminated the dusk, placing it in the dumpster right after, the bag with the rest soon following. I closed my eyes, taking a deep breath of fresh air through my mouth, and lifted myself over the side into the mysteries below.

Now my friends, being in a dumpster is a strange, strange eaxperience that I highly do not reccommend. The air is sticky and hot with the putrid stench that you can just feel prickling up your arms, making the hairs stand at a tension, the bags supporting your body are not always made to support your weight and will break, spilling their repulsive contents, you're afriad to rest your hands in fear of encountering some sort of radioactive slime that will never wash off, and you can never find a good position. The only motivation that kept me there instead of scramming like a bat out of hell was, "C'mon, Sam, he does this every sine day and handles it with _class_. Put on your big boy pants and do this for him." With that, I started my masterpiece so that the next morning, he'd encounter on the inside wall of the dumbster in rainbow lettering:

_Reasons I love Kurt Hummel:_

_He is so damn strong_

_He is the definition of classy_

_He can be thrown in here with dignity_

_He is so smart_

_His eyes are the most beautiful things I've ever seen_

_to be continued... :)_

That's why I come to school just the slightest bit early, even though it still pains me to watch the way he's treated, his reaction is always the same as that very first day.

I arrived a full thirty minutes early, leaping out of bed and smiling through all of my preparations, butterflies making a fluttery mess out of my stomach. I'd never done something so...so..._bold_ before, so I was nervous and excited to see the result of my hard work. I'd had to soap up twice in the shower to get rid of the putrid stench, but I had my mind convinced that it was all worth it. My mother wondered what sort of chipper, energized, long lost alien twin had replaced her son that morning and made her musings known over a breakfast that I'd prepared myself, to which I just shrugged and continued dancing out the door. I was in my position behind the trees doodling and tapping my foot impatiently for fifteen minutes before the teachers started trickling in, grasping their various caffeinated beverages like a life-preserver and trying to keep their dark-circled eyes open. Soon after followed the students in a very similar manner. Taking their morning positions the same as every day.

_He_ was one of the last people to arrive, as always, hoping that he'd be able to escape his fate just once, and, as usual, didn't succeed. He was circled by the pack of wolves, eyes resembling a deer-in-headlights. He shook off the fear and turned on his superior face, making one last witty comment before flying into the bin. The jocks left on their high-horses, high-fiving each-other and playing because even though they did it every day and were never confronted, their five-year-old pea-brains still thought the whole thing was funny.

It felt like it took eons longer than usual for the first pale arm to be slung over the rim. The rest of his body followed, leaping out with a curious, euphoric aura, his young features beaming in pure joy. He bounded across the asphalt, skipping and dancing the whole way. His lithe, agile figure seemed to be carried through the air by the wind like the seeds of a dandelion after a child makes a wish and blows, dancing and twirling. I was his mirror after seeing that. To think that _I_ had caused that dramatic change in aura gave me no other choice than to mimic his euphoria.

It became a daily routine, every night I'd find a time to go to the school and add another reason (believe me, I'd always have a surplus of them) and every morning he'd read it and we'd have the same reactions that still carries to this day. By the time three months had passed, the entire front wall looked like a rainbow had had a bad case of word-vomit, so I'd moved on to the next one.

By early October, he'd naturally started to get curious as to who was leaving him those little messages, which was completely understandable. One brisk night when I lowered myself into the dumpster, I found a message that stood out from the others right under my last reason written in a silvery, beautiful script. It was short, but it still made my heart beat faster than a jackrabbit running a marathon and a cold sweat cover my body:

_Who are you? Why do you let this happen to me?_

My hands had started shaking. I could've written who I was and maybe I'd have the chance to be with him like I'd always wanted. But that thought alone gave me the bliss of my fantasies becoming real and the sheer terror that also came along with it. I couldn't do that, I was nowhere _near_ ready. But I wanted it _so bad_! The options sat on my two shoulders like the angel and the devil, nagging my ears off with the pros and cons of both options. I ended up writing almost illegibly under it:

_I try. I try so bloody hard to protect you and be nice to you, but no one listens to me. In the **position** that I'm in, there is no way I can come out, I'm just not ready. I hope you can understand. =C_

_He has the guts to be himself_

The next morning I trudged to my place slowly with my head down, ashamed of myself for being such a coward. The whole process commenced as usual, the team surrounding him with Finn on the outside of the semi-circle as they tossed him in with me watching from the trees. Though, it took a bit longer than usual for him to hop out of the bin. He was slower and less peppy with his eyebrows furrowed in concentration and curiosity, trying to decipher the subliminal message in mine. I had made the word '_position_' a bit bolder and larger, hoping that he might understand that I meant my position on the football team. I wanted him to know and I wanted him to not, so I figured giving him details to narrow down his guessing would work, right?

Wrong. I kept an extra eye on him throughout the day, changing my routes to pass him in the hallway, stalling a bit on my way, and finding a seat in the cafeteria that had a good view of the table where he sat alone. I could see that he caught on fast because he kept staring at the table where all of the jocks (except for me) sat, looking at each one and really thinking about each option with the same furrow that hadn't left since that morning. He wasn't eating, just picking at his salad with his fork as he was thinking with his napkin on his black jean-clad lap. He had a much simpler outfit that day, black skinny jeans and black T-shirt with a black and white plaid long-sleeved one unbuttoned over it.

It was then, on that fateful day in mid-October of freshman year, right as we were leaving the cafeteria, that _it_ happened. He was strutting down the hallway with that little dance in his step, staring into space, I was keeping a 10 foot stealthy tail, and Finn Hudson and Noah Puckerman were just strolling down the hallway in the opposing direction. Then things started going in slow-motion. Noah caught the scent of his prey, his head turning to face him with a smug grin on his face. His lips pressed into a single line as he prepared his arm and shoulder, Finn still having an oblivious grin, one similar to Kurt's, not knowing what his friend was planing to do. Kurt danced into the jock's line of fire, a rabbit passing a wolf as he prepared to pounce. And pounce he did. Noah angled his torso toward the smaller boy so that the two connected, pushing with enough strength to send the unexpecting countertenor flying into the wall of lockers.

Right on target. The predator's face donned a smug grin of victory as he just proceeded to walk on like nothing happened. Unfortunately for Noah and me and fortunately for Kurt and Finn, that wasn't the case. Finn heard the slam of the boy's form connecting with the wall and stopped in his tracks, turning his head to see exactly what had happened. He stopped the bully walking next to him with a hand forcefully put on his shoulder and scolded him with, "Dude, impulse control," which got a response of an uncaring shrug. Then, the situation turned into a nauseatingly cliche moment in a sappy romance.

Finn turned around, giving a nod of apology with his lips forming a single line. It looked like he knew something, and Kurt thought he knew something, too. "NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, _NO_," my mind screamed. I was watching the scene from behind two girls who were talking at one of their lockers when I realized that my message, my subliminal message was interpreted both correctly and incorrectly. _Finn_. _He _was on the football team, _he_ never assisted in throwing Kurt into the dumpsters yet did anything about it. _He_ just tried to protect Kurt.

Kurt figured it out, all of the pieces coming together as he fluttered his eyes at Finn's retreating from. Finn. _Finn_. No! Sam! Sam is who you want! Sam is who wants you! Sam, Sam, _Sam_! But he couldn't hear my silent pleas. He never would. So he started his chasing after Finn, leaving me in a wild goose chase, going after him, which still continues to this day.

He chases Finn.

I chase him.

Secretly.

From the shadows.

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A/N: If this is my last chapter, thank you all so much for your wonderful reviews, subscriptions, and favorites! They really mean the world to me! Please don't pressure me with reviews saying 'NO! THIS CAN'T BE THE LAST CHAPTER! YOU MUST CONTINUE OR I WILL FIND YOU AND FORCE YOU TO!' because I don't want this to end just as much as you, but when September comes, I will be 1,000+ times busier and we will actually have Sam on our TV screens. Thank you, and goodnight (well, afternoon, but you get my picture)! 3


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